Magic Man

Despite his New Agey, universalist bent and love for cosmic Coltraneian symphonies, Santana seems to have made peace with the need to cater to the marketplace while staying true to his vision.

''When I was a teenager, I was a serious rebel hippie,'' he says of those acid-soaked days when he plugged into the heady San Francisco rock scene with the first incarnation of what was then known as the Santana Blues Band, which he formed in 1966. ''I thought entertainers were plastic, synthetic. But I've learned to respect entertainers, like Sammy Davis Jr. -- he was a consummate entertainer.

''But I still don't want to be 'Mr. Entertainer,''' he admits. ''That's corny. I want to be a person who, when he walks into the room, you know there's angels walking in with him.''

''We love you, Carlos!'' The cry echoes through the Santa Barbara Bowl, summing up the prevailing sentiment of the estimated 7,000 who've shown up at the idyllic outdoor arena to hear Santana. Granted, all of Cali is Carlos country (Santana lives further north in San Rafael with his wife of three decades, Deborah; they have three teenage children, Salvador, Stella, and Angelica), but one senses that the prevailing spirit of pie-eyed affection is replicated wherever Santana and his 10-piece band show up. ''Grandparents, parents, teenagers, little children,'' says Santana, beaming at his audience. ''All is one.''

Despite Santana's promise that ''we're going to play everything you want to hear,'' the set draws primarily from his last two albums, eschewing hippie-era faves like ''Evil Ways'' and ''Black Magic Woman/Gypsy Queen'' (though ''Jingo,'' from 1969's ''Santana,'' is trotted out for the encore). Santana, whose swaths of crystalline guitar cut through the percussive music like a razor-edged broadsword through sackcloth, is in high spirits, dancing, singing, and, during his more passionate solos, scrunching his features into what the late rock critic Lester Bangs memorably dubbed the ''soul-squint grimace.'' Save for a couple of anomalously Woodstockian touches (10-minute solos from drummer Dennis Chambers and bassist Benny Rietveld), the two-and-a-half-hour show feels remarkably well-oiled.

''Beauty, elegance, excellence, grace, dignity,'' Santana beatifically intones toward the conclusion of the gig. Like the guru he has often been likened to, he repeats the mantra twice, to deafening applause. No doubt about it: The collective consciousness vibration is in full effect.

Somewhere up there, Metatron is smiling.